


Blood and Salt

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, College, Gen, Injury, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Rape, Revenge, Violence, non-consensual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Their bodies gather like sheep and Okamura counts them as they fall. He isn't afraid of the repercussions, should one of them slip out into the night begging for assistance—no, this is about guaranteeing that each of them gets what he feels they deserve.
Kudos: 4





	Blood and Salt

He stares down at the blood-soaked pavement, the stench of death all around him, but all he can smell is the scent of your perfume.

Okamura is not a small man. He stands tall with broad shoulders and muscular arms; an erect, military figure with dangerous eyes, a prominent jaw, and vengeance set in against the fullness of his lips. He's at least thirty pounds more brawn than the biggest man in the warehouse, and while he was an able-bodied opponent, he was no match for Okamura's strength and determination. And while he would normally illustrate a soft and gentle nature, Okamura is out for blood tonight, and the picture he's painting isn't a pretty one.

The young men here have never witnessed such rage, such off-leash wrath—never before have they tasted such violence and anger: rage born from a man so deep in love it just might bury him before he can dig himself out of the hole he's put himself into.

If passion had a name in death then it would be a forty-five caliber bullet and Christ himself would be the metal shell. The hammer blow would be the rush of a large hand, curled into an unbreakable fist built not from iron, but hatred and revenge.

Two different opinions, two opposing forces, truth turned hypocrisy with the mingling aftertaste of impatience—or perhaps it was expectancy. Nonetheless, it had all started as playground provocation, a dig that turned into a flurry of invective that got out of hand. It was harmless harassment, _just a prank_ , they'd said. It's wasn't as if they'd done anything to harm her physically.

Okamura didn't agree with this assessment, however, nor did he approve of their hackneyed profanities or tawdry way of thinking. He could only hear empty apologies and a weak aggregation of pretext to get him to let them walk—but if lies could speak a thousand words, Okamura could see right through them.

His fist connects with soft tissue and rigid framework, over and over and over again until the crunch of bone and the spray of blood plays like a recital, and their aggregate soliloquy is brought to an end in a chorus of wet sobs and broken prayers.

And like spiders get carried away on silver threads, the spine is just a string.

Their bodies gather like sheep and Okamura counts them as they fall. He isn't afraid of the repercussions, should one of them slip out into the night begging for assistance—no, this is about guaranteeing that each of them gets what he feels they deserve. So he ticks them off on his bloody fingers and grins at the last men standing, the duo that he's deemed the vilest of the pack.

“Let's have some fun, boys,” Okamura says, and even without the blood spattering his face and the shadows swamping his gaze, he wears maniacal madness like it's been stitched across the skin he was born into.

* * *

Okamura watches the one he's named 'six' choke on the heavy cock that belongs to his comrade, his throat muscles working to keep up with his lack of experience. He tries to break away from the punishing rhythm that spells urgency set before him, the animal need for friction and sexual gratification that 'five' longs for. It's betrayal in every sense of the word and it imbues Okamura with a sick sense of satisfaction— _throw a dog a bone and watch the whole pack tear each other apart just to have a taste—_ but if escapism be a need of this man, Okamura will grant him no mercy.

Okamura braces his hand against the back of 'six's' head and shoves him forward with enough force that the man gags violently. His eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks and stipple the floor, dust and salt mixing to form a dirty stain. His nose is clotted with blood and Okamura can feel his rising panic through his calloused fingertips. His fear is so tangible that Okamura can hear the alarm bells going off inside his head, a chorus of earsplitting questions that end on whether he's going to make it out of here alive or if death by asphyxiation will be inked across his autopsy papers after they find his body— _if_ they find his body.

Okamura slides a hand through 'six's' hair and tightens his fingers, forms a fist that sends pain flaring along the line of the man's scalp. He sets the pace and watches the flush on his cheeks darken under the influence of humiliation and unsought heat.

“That's a good boy. Hollow those cheeks and suck him real good or I'll make you start at the beginning,” Okamura says, voice disguised in the vein of praise.

For a fleeting moment, Okamura thinks he wouldn't mind those lips wrapped around his own thick and swelling arousal. He can feel blood rush to the head of his cock, the aching need to feel something more than sideline gratification pulse through him. But he won't betray your trust, not when he's promised his heart to you, and it doesn't matter that you don't know the lengths of his devotion or his love for you. Time will continue to grow the fruits of possibility and Okamura will educate you when he's built up the courage.

Thinking about you stirs an emotion within Okamura that he can't name but he remembers the way you had looked when he last saw you, running away from a pack of hyenas, tears streaming down your cheeks. He tightens his grip further, tearing several strands of hair out of 'six's scalp. He knows that their cruel remarks were partly due to you speaking with him, and to think that he could be a part of something that hurt you tears him apart.

“That's enough,” he growls, tearing 'six' away from 'five' and throwing him down on the floor like a slab of meat. Something breaks and 'six' howls in agony but Okamura doesn't spare him a second glance. Instead, he looks at 'five' sharply and snaps his fingers, pointing at the man with slick lips and swollen features. “Fuck him,” he orders, his tone as sharp and cold as winter's frore.

The man looks shell-shocked but Okamura has long lost his patience. He steps forward and the man looks caught between throwing a punch in self-defense and running away. Okamura catches him before he can make a decision and drags him forward by the collar of his shirt. Blood sticks to the line of his jaw and there's a deep bruise forming beneath his right eye.

“I'm not here to play games. You're going to fuck him or I'm going to take that nice piece of rebar over there and ram it up your ass. You pick but make it fast, I've wasted enough time on you and your shitty _friends_.” Okamura bodily tosses him next to his companion, knowing that these types will always save their own hides before sacrificing themselves for another; friendship has no value when the stakes are this high.

Okamura spares a glance over his shoulder and spots one of the men—'three' he thinks—attempting to drag his body across the granular concrete. His face is indistinguishable, so thick with blood and gore that it would nominate laughter in any cartoon. His movements are stiff and long-drawn-out and Okamura knows that he'll be gone by the time he makes it to the door, if he doesn't pass out first.

He turns his attention back to the two men on the floor, unsurprised to see 'five' already sliding his cock into 'six's' entrance, unlubricated and raw. An apology slips past his lips but Okamura rolls his eyes, knowing that if he were ever put in this situation, he'd rather die than hurt one of his friends. Still, it's what he called for and he'd be a turncoat of sorts if he reneged on his word now.

It doesn't take long before 'five' spends himself inside of 'six', the latter barely conscious and breathing a sound that bubbles in his throat like something wet and clotted is trapped in its shadows. Okamura, already subjected to the abysmal depths of his infatuation, thinks about ending each of their lives. This thought, however, despite the bruises forming on his torn knuckles and the bodies that litter the floor in states of suspended consciousness, scares him. He would kill for you without hesitation, knows this to be true better than he knows himself, but he also knows that you would never forgive him for it. You might subscribe to his flaky nature and unconventional charms, and even his truculent appearance, but you would never indulge a murderer.

He swept through the warehouse like a mortal element, a dangerous, consuming, caustic element that burned everything it touched. And to his disbelief, they hadn't seen it coming. They had dropped like flies and writhed on the floor like the maggots that spill over the edge of the dumpster outside. Blood hissed against the pavement like rain on a hot night and Okamura drank in the sound like a fresh start.

Now, all that's left is to curse him in the inky scene of desolation until the pain dissipates enough to call for help. Okamura considers this a win, his mouth twisting in a frightful grin of triumph as he retrieves his jacket. His shirt is spattered with blood, withered and torn at its edges, but he's traded daylight for this—knows that the night will grant him anonymity.

When he steps outside, he inhales the crisp night air and suppresses the urge to burn the whole place down. He tells himself that he's not capable of committing such a heinous crime, but the only thing that's holding him back is that he loves you too much to jeopardize your future relationship.

He sets off into the darkness, hidden treasures in his eyes and the barest hint of the moon lighting his way. He absentmindedly listens to the shuffle of his feet as he makes his way down another lawless street in the underbelly of Akita; a man shadowed by obscurity and drunk on infatuation.

“I'm coming for you,” he whispers, his love for you outdistancing his ability to think of anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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